


the only moment we were alone

by lumberchicken



Series: rabbit bones [1]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Other, description of cremation, non-graphic animal death, non-graphic autopsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7237861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumberchicken/pseuds/lumberchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three people killed in a house fire early on Thursday morning died of smoke inhalation, according to a local medical examiner. The victims of the fire are Siobhan Sadler, 36, and her two children, Sarah Manning, 12, and Felix Dawkins, 7...</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only moment we were alone

**Two Scientists Killed in Laboratory Fire Identified**  
  
_The two scientists killed in last week’s tragic laboratory fire in Cambridge have been identified as Ethan Duncan, 36, and his wife Susan Duncan, 34. The couple were working at a Cambridge laboratory when an accidental fire overtook the lab, destroying a portion of the building and putting dozens out of work._  
  
_According to Chief Constable Alastair Davies, “Due to the extreme temperatures created due to the fire, identification by normal means is all but impossible, but we have the remains of what appear to be an adult woman and an adult man, found in the area the Duncans were working. Unfortunately, as the Duncans are the only employees unaccounted for at this point, we’re certain that they are our victims.”_  
  
_The Duncans’ only child has been taken into the care of relatives, according to a neighbor._  
  
_As the investigation continues, police will…_  
  


* * *

  
  
Human bones begin to burn at approximately 1,292 degrees fahrenheit, or 700 degrees celsius. The skull chars first, as it has the least amount of skin and fat protecting it. If given long enough, the rest of the bones will follow. A human body is capable of burning for hours, given the right conditions. In the end, the bones won’t burn down to ash, not completely. They chip and re-fuse in fragments, which are collected, ground into a fine powder, and placed in plastic bags. Or urns.  
  
Or coffins.  
  
On her ninth birthday, Rachel Duncan reads this out of a book hidden under her pink duvet, a flashlight her only visibility. She reads the words again and again, committing them to memory. _The skull chars first. Burn for hours. Chip and re-fuse. Plastic bags._  
  
Her parents are nothing but detritus swept off the floor of their lab. They were stored in plastic bags that probably still stink like smoke. And now they are buried underground, in England, which is 3,537 miles away. She can trace her finger along the lines of a map, moving from Toronto to Cambridge, but the city where she grew up is reduced to a tiny dot under her fingertip, and it means nothing to her.  
  
Rachel stares at the pages of the book she’s reading until her eyes are as red and stinging as they were on that day, the day of the fire, and then she closes the book, places it on her bedside table, and rolls onto her back.  
  
The following day, she is sent to the lab for her monthly blood test, and when she returns to her room, the book is gone.

Which is all right. She doesn't need it anymore.  
  


* * *

  
  
She doesn’t ask for a pet, or for a friend of any kind, but she must look pitiful to them, this little girl surrounded by adults, and so they get her a rabbit. Peter, he’s called, after the rabbit from the storybook. Peter is _not_ a storybook rabbit. He stares up at her with unblinking black beads for eyes, and when she holds him, his heart thrums under her hands like a tiny motor. Rachel doesn’t think that Peter is even a pet shop rabbit, as a matter of fact. She thinks Peter is a rabbit plucked from a corner of the DYAD property and given to her out of misguided sympathy.  
  
She doesn’t _love_ Peter, because she’s decided never to love anything again, but she comes to enjoy stroking his fur and listening to him move about in his cage. Peter learns to hop toward her when she brings him something to eat, and to sit still while she picks him up. They come to an understanding, which Rachel appreciates.  
  
After six months, Peter gets sick, and two days later, he dies. Rachel goes to a meeting with a psychologist who wants to see how she’s reacting to the loss of her pet so soon after the tragic death of her parents.  
  
_Did you kill him?_ Rachel doesn’t ask out loud. _Did you kill him just to see what I would do?_  
  
Perhaps, she thinks, all over the globe, there are little black-haired girls crying over dead pets. Pets dead in accidents, of old age, of illness. All on the same day, and the little idiots have no idea.  
  
Rabbits, the therapist tells her, just aren’t meant to live underground forever. They need sunlight and fresh air to thrive.  
  
“Just like little girls,” Rachel says. And smiles.  
  


* * *

  
  
She dissects Peter, with Dr. Leekie’s permission, as part of her biology tutorial.  
  
The sight of Peter’s blood, the red muscle laid out along his tiny, brittle bones, doesn’t bother Rachel. The smell does, but she doesn’t let herself show it. Dr. Leekie explains the entire process in detail. He’d like her to go into the sciences, like her parents (like _him_ ), but she doesn’t care much for this. The cutting itself is tedious, and her hands smell like latex and blood.  
  
The rabbit’s heart is the size of her thumbnail. This is the little motor she felt under her hands.  
  
“It’s so small,” she says. She can’t help herself.  
  
“Your own heart,” Dr. Leekie tells her, “is the size of your fist.”  
  
_This_ , Rachel thinks, _is all we are_.  
  


* * *

  
  
**House Fire in Brixton Kills Three**  
  
_The three people killed in a house fire early on Thursday morning died of smoke inhalation, according to a local medical examiner._  
  
_The victims of the fire are Siobhan Sadler, 36, and her two children, Sarah Manning, 12, and Felix Dawkins, 7. The two children were adopted after coming to Ms. Sadler as part of the local foster programme._  
  
_The family had been making preparations to move out of the country, according to a neighbor, who said, “They would have left safely a few days from now. That’s the most tragic part of all this.”_  
  
_As of this printing, the cause of the fire is unknown._  
  


* * *

  
  
Sarah Manning’s room is ready the day before she arrives.  
  
They set it up quickly, and the room is a pale imitation of Rachel’s; the DYAD sends somebody in to catalogue her furniture, writing down what Rachel has and ordering a second version of it. A bed. A wardrobe. A desk and chair. A bookshelf. Everything a little girl could want.

The night they bring Sarah in, Aldous tells Rachel to wait before introducing herself. Sarah has been through a difficult time, and she’s overwhelmed and exhausted. Naturally, Rachel ignores him.  
  
When she enters Sarah’s room, the other girl is lying curled on her side, over the blankets. She doesn’t look up when Rachel walks in, or when she turns on the overhead lights, but Rachel knows she must be awake. She’s too still. Still, she takes her time as she approaches the bed and sits on the edge of it, watching Sarah pretend to sleep.  
  
Mismatched pajamas. Pale skin, small freckles on the nose. Chapped lips. Smear of soot—or dirt—on the chin. Greasy, tangled hair. _Pathetic_.  
  
“I know you’re awake,” Rachel says, and watches as Sarah’s eyes flutter open, then squeeze shut again. “My name is Rachel Duncan. We’ve been searching for you for a very long time.” We. She likes the sound of that. Of being part of the DYAD.  
  
Sarah doesn’t open her eyes again, or speak. Rachel waits, but there’s no reaction, least of all the praise and wonder she’d been expecting.  
  
She moves so that she’s lying beside Sarah on the bed, spooning her, and drapes an arm over her. She knows that, above them, someone is watching this on a monitor. Taking notes, perhaps. But the security cameras don’t record sound. It’s all right. All they’ll see is a little girl comforting another little girl.  
  
Sarah smells of smoke, and it’s awful, but Rachel forces herself to push closer, tucking her chin over Sarah’s shoulder so that her lips rest at the level of Sarah’s ear.  
  
“There’s another one of you,” she says, watching as her breath moves a piece of Sarah’s tangled hair. “They’re still looking for her. Do you know her?”  
  
Beside her, Sarah’s body is stiff. Finally, she speaks. “No.”  
  
“Are you certain?” Rachel says, although she believes Sarah must be telling the truth. If the other twin were in contact, Aldous would have had them both. Sarah nods against Rachel’s cheek. Good. One girl is easy enough to control. Two might not be.  
  
“Sarah Manning,” Rachel says, testing the name on her tongue. Sa-rah. “Was Manning the name of your foster mother?” She waits for an answer, but when Sarah gives her nothing, she continues, “It’s rather common, isn’t it?”  
  
Sarah inhales, a deep, shuddering breath. It sounds like the last gasp of a drowning person. “They called me that when I was born.” Her accent is as common as her name.  
  
Rachel lets them lapse into silence, and wonders if Sarah might fall asleep like this. She doubts it, and she’s proven right when Sarah says, in a voice so quiet Rachel can barely hear her, “I wanna go home.”  
  
“No,” Rachel says. “You can’t go back. Ever.”  
  
“My family,” Sarah begins, and trails off into silence.  
  
“Dead,” Rachel whispers, and feels Sarah shrinking into herself like a piece of paper curling as it burns. “Do you think it’s worse to suffocate, or to burn? I wonder.”  
  
Sarah goes still beside her, frozen, not even breathing.  
  
“You’re dead, too,” Rachel whispers into the pink shell of Sarah’s ear. “Sarah Manning from Brixton burned to death along with her foster family. And if you don’t do what we say—what _I_ say—we will kill you. Do you understand? You’ll disappear, and no one will notice. No one will care.” She repeats the question, hugging Sarah close. “Do you understand, Sarah?”  
  
Sarah’s breathing is heavy with smoke and ash and the three thousand miles she’s traveled. She says, “Yes,” and the sound is cracking bones, fragile as glass. Rabbit bones.  
  
Rachel smiles. “Very good.”

**Author's Note:**

> whoooo boy! how about that finale, eh?


End file.
